


We Love as we Play when Work Gives us Time

by LucyBrown45



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Anal Sex, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Miss Julie Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9922496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyBrown45/pseuds/LucyBrown45
Summary: It isMidsommarin Sweden, 1888. In the absence of his mother, the Dowager Countess, the longest day of the year stirs up tension on the estate of Count Barebone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It turns out that Colin Farrell and Samantha Morton appear together in a 2014 film adaptation of Strindberg’s 1888 play, _Miss Julie_. I find _Miss Julie_ a deeply unsatisfying play, but one that isn’t very long and possibly worth reading if only for a look at an attempt to perform everyday life on stage and at Strindberg’s odd theories of women. 
> 
> For Information.  
> The _New Church_ is a real thing that Strindberg became interested in later in life. 
> 
> From Wikipedia:  
> Ont krut förgås inte så lätt = Evil gunpowder doesn't go away easily.  
> This proverb is a folk etymological misunderstanding of the German, unkraut vergeht nicht (bad weeds grow tall).
> 
> I hope this is fun.

The estate belongs to Credence. Not in name, but in all the ways that matter. The servants address him by his inherited title and defer to him for their daily duties and the imposition of family expectations. It is a heavy burden to carry for the young man who recently turned twenty-five with no fanfare. It weighs heavy. It has grown heavier with each passing year. 

The day is warm. Which has pleased the people. It is good luck for _St John’s Eve_ to be warm. The sun bequeathing a gift for the longest day of the year. Credence shivers. Out here, in the field, the breeze curtsies an escalope under the fringes of the haystacks. Arches the marram and sends the cuckoo flowers cowering. He tamps the grass beneath his feet and turns to look at the house. He holds his hand up to veil his eyes, squinting, the poplar trees dappling the bone white of the stone walls. 

His arm falls heavy at his side. A shimmer of dust escapes his sleeve where it meets his thigh. He brushes the other. It’s dried mud from the dairy. It’s caked on the soles of his boots too. In the summer light the black of his lounge suit looks a toasted brown all over and he hopes that Queenie will not ask him again to let her wash it. He frowns and brushes both hands down the plane of his front. She spoke out of turn. It wasn’t her place to speak to him like that. 

Bolstered, he stands with his feet hips’ width apart and breathes in. He straightens his back, taller than a bad weed. _Ont krut_ , as his father used to say. He begins walking towards the barn. He can hear an assembly of _nyckelharpa_ and fiddles, which some of the local villagers must have brought. They are clapping loudly and rhythmically. 

The gathering is a motley one. Credence pauses a distance away from the barn. He leans a hand on the _Midsommarstång_. The birch leaves yielding to his touch. Their scent sharp in the air. The walk has made him breathless and left him with a diminished sense of purpose. Here they are, his servants, his people laughing and singing. He feels unwelcome. He lingers, part hiding behind the pole. He watches as Queenie and her sister dance. They have the best _midsommarkrans_. Lilacs for Queenie and Forget-Me-Nots for Tina. He wishes they had thought to make one for him. 

His cheeks blush and he looks up at the sun. The day has already been too long. He sets his face stoic and uncaring and approaches a small cluster of workers near the wide barn entrance. One of them notices him and dips his head in greeting. “My Lord.”

The corner of Credence’s mouth flickers into a smile. He waits for the others to follow suit. Andersson, Pettersson, Johansson. He knows them all. He graciously nods and then over-eager, acting too hard, cheers, “Come. It is _Midsommar_. Please, there are to be no titles between us.” He grips Henriksson’s shoulder in what he hopes is a manner befitting his play as benevolent Count. Master of the Estate. The farmhands look at him with cautious eyes and he assumes he has failed and his slim fingers tight on the worn fabric of Henrikson’s coat make him look like a lost babe. 

He takes this failure as a personal one, but knows he cannot back down from the game he has begun. He calls to Percival. He makes the footman take hands in dance. Credence is aware that his dancing is not joyous or accurate. He is not a good partner, but he did take lessons. He did learn the steps. He knows Percival did too. Knows he grew up in a fine house, under his housekeeper mother’s skirts. Was taught correct speech and proper etiquette. He trusts Percival to give him back a perfectly constructed Janus face for the ever-watching eyes of his people. 

Percival spins him a waltz a final time. They are about to break apart evenly and finish, allowing Credence to escape back to the house with his dignity in tact, when a roar erupts from the crowd. The fiddle player, knocked from his bale of hay causes the barn to dissolve into drunken giggles. Credence snatches himself away from Percival and fumes out, down to the gravelled yard before the kitchen. Nobody notices him leave. 

He paces in front of the open kitchen door. Cups his hands under the outside tap and splashes his neck and cheeks with cool, clear water. His mother’s dog, Diana is panting at him. She’s always been a fat thing and is now swollen with the pups of the gamekeeper’s _gårdshund_. His mother is not happy about this and has instructed Newt to prepare an abortive tonic for the careless creature. He appears to have failed to do this. 

Credence seizes the solid pine frame of the door and leans in, looking crossly for Newt. He is nowhere to be seen. He glares down at Diana before turning into the coach passage to the front of the house. 

Newt is carrying an ornate blue vase from the orangery when he hears Credence’s tight voice shout his name. He pauses, boots scuffing on red tile. He smiles, the child is hot headed. As he resumes walking and finally reaches the kitchen, Percival looks up at the sound. He is sat at the table waiting to be served, but graciously stands and takes the vase from Newt and puts it on the sideboard near the sink. “The boy is wild today.”

Newt takes a spoon and stirs the kidneys he has in a pan on the stove for Percival’s supper. “No more so than usual, surely?”

“Surely.” Percival clears his throat and looks at Newt’s pale eyelashes as he leans over to dispense the food onto his plate. “He made me dance with him.”

Newt leaves the frying pan near Percival’s elbow, should he want any more of the meat. Herring tomorrow, he thinks. Suitable fare. He turns back to the hob, catching the pan about to bubble. “Oh. He’s distraught. The family leaving him here on _Midsommar_ -”

“What are you cooking up? Smells like death.”

“It is.”

Percival quirks at eyebrow at him. 

Newt’s mouth has gone thin. “It’s for Diana.”

The dog is laid out on her stomach in the warm patch where the sun pours in from the window, heating the floor. Percival knows that Newt was tasked to do this a week ago and has delayed it. He could have delayed it further with the Countess away and Percival’s brow furrows. His nose stings. The smell really is quite terrible. 

Half rising from his chair he reaches forward and ruffles the syringa blossoms arranged in the Japanese jar, attempting to circulate their scent. He sits back down and looks around the room. “It is _Midsommar_.” He nods. “There must be wine.” Newt smiles and watches him search the cabinets before pulling a bottle of chardonnay from the drawer of the table. He flourishes it. “From Dijon.”

Newt presents Diana with her medicine and shakes his head as he removes his apron. “From Dijon,” he agrees. 

Smoothing the napkin Newt has set his plate on and sitting down before it, Percival pours himself a glass and takes a long swallow. “Just a touch too cold.” Newt rolls his eyes before combing his blunt nails through Percival’s hair. 

“You will dance with me won’t you?”

“Let me eat, Newt.”

“You will though? It’s bad luck other wise.”

Credence kicks at the juniper branches strewn decoratively on the floor as he comes into the kitchen. “Yes, Percival. It would be bad luck.”

Newt steps back as Percival stands and they both duck their heads to the master. 

Credence’s temper is a sticky thing. Once something has upset him there is no diverting his mood. Newt folds his hands in front of himself and waits for the Count to speak, but Percival has no such qualms. “Master.” He straightens the edges of his waistcoat. He put his heavy livery coat in the boot-room, not expecting to see Credence again for the rest of the evening and had felt emboldened by the day in any case. Diana wines. 

Percival says, “I’ll take my leave of you both. I know you wish to discuss the dog.” It was customary in the house for the staff to allow Newt to deal with Credence. 

“Impudent of you to suppose.” 

Percival pauses and remembers his place. Mirrors Newt and fold his hands. “Yes, my Lord.”

There is a stillness. A cloud crosses the window and Diana barks weakly. Credence makes an abrupt sound, mouth split over an uncomfortable grin. “Come! It is _Midsommar_!” He strikes the heel of his hand into Percival’s bicep with significantly more force than expected by either party. Percival, surprised has to take the hit with a lazy but instinctive step back, his weight heavy on his left leg. 

Newt doesn’t say anything, but his eyebrows rise up to his hairline. Credence pretends not to notice the reactions of his servants and strides forward to take Newt’s hand. Tightly holding it between his palms he looks at Newt seriously and says, “It is _Midsommar_ , but there are duties to be attending to.” He pulls Newt’s hand towards his own chest. “You have taken care of the dog? I can smell it.”

“I have, my Lord.”

“You took your time.” Credence’s hold onto Newt’s hand, tightens until both their fingertips are red and the knuckles a sickly yellow. Newt flounders, unsure what to say. Credence is often mean spirited and hard to please, but not often vicious with his touch. Suddenly, Credence releases him and laughs too loud. He leans on the table, which Newt quickly clears. Percival’s supper going to the dog. Greedy thing able to eat after being fed poison. 

Credence points at Percival. “You dance well. You must dance a _schottische_ with me.”

The dog’s jaw clacks loudly. The thick tension in the air cleared by Credence’s clumsy and not necessarily authentic attempt to bridge their obvious differences on the festival day. Percival laughs, “Master Credence, I am afraid I have saved this dance for Newt.”

Credence hoists himself up to sit on the edge of the table. “He can dance with you any time.” He looks to Newt, hoping for his confirmation. 

However, Newt too picks up on the new tone between them. “It would be Percival’s honour.” He pouts dramatically. “But my disappointment.”

Newt is not old enough to be Credence’s father, but he came to the estate as a young man when Credence was still a child. The Countess, not a dowager at that time, had taken the Count’s advice to find Credence a playmate of some sort. Newt could speak English and so the nature of play was learning and Credence’s only friend was a scullery boy. He taught him using over-exaggerated facial expressions and over the top acting. It used to make Credence squeal with giggles. 

Percival joins in and bows deeply, holding his arm out waiting for Credence to take it. 

“You won’t make me weep will you, Credence?” Newt takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his eyes, elbows up by his ears.

Credence slips from the table and clicks his heels together with his landing. Newt and Percival laugh, thinking it part of the game. “Stop it.” Credence stamps his foot. “Stop it.” 

They do. They sober fast and stand straight, awaiting further orders.

“I am the Count of this estate. The Master. I have honoured you.” He waves a frantic hand at the window. “You peasants with my presence. I have been lenient on this day.” Frustrated, he sweeps the juniper, first with one foot, then the other. “It is my right to have a good dance partner, a respectable one. Today. It is-“ He puts his hands on his hips and swallows loudly. “It is my holiday too. Don’t look at me like that, Newt.”

He takes in a large ragged breath before seizing Percival by the arm and leading him away to the barn. 

Newt watches them leave. Credence charging with quick, angry steps and Percival striding alongside him, the gentleman companion. It’s not right, of course. Credence should not dance with the same partner twice, especially not one of the help. It’s improper. It’s impolite. People will talk. He puts his hands on his knees, stretching out his back and takes several deep breaths. 

Credence has been acting queer lately. Awake in the night at odd hours. Mood careening dangerously between sour hatred and an unfriendly, wild lightness. He can hear the music change suddenly. They’ve acquiesced Credence’s request for a _schottische_. He rearranges the juniper before standing up straight. Credence, despite his troubles is a good boy. And a good master despite habitually shaking the unwanted responsibility from his hands like dirty dishwater. 

As he begins to wash the plates in the sink, he hums the tune. Sings the occasional line to Diana. It won’t get dark for hours yet, but twilight is beginning to set in so he lights the candles on a tin plate. He picks his apron up from the bench, folds it and tidies it away in a linen drawer. 

He takes the opportunity to sit by the cooker. It’s still emanating warmth from supper. While the day has been hot, it is a comfort spot and he stretches his legs out, crossing his ankles. Relaxed, A glowing poker of a memory startles through his mind of his and Credence’s eyes meeting at the back of the Turkish Pavilion. 

Newt with his hands soft on the hard bones of Percival’s hips. Percival grazing his palms on the rough wood of the wall. Their trousers barely pushed down, no room to do what they really want to. Making it tight, bringing them close. Percival murmuring curses as Newt steadily rubbed his cock between his thighs, pre-come smearing inelegantly, but no time for anything better. Leaving wet kisses at the back of neck, thumbing the skin below his navel, making it feel good any way. 

Credence’s fathomless brown eyes boring into his own blue ones. Unable to stop moving, the mist over his mind refusing to clear. Credence had been bundled up in a long wool coat and the sight of him had flushed Newt cold, dispelling all heat left over from that morning’s hard labour in the dairy. As he’d put a hurried hand on the centre of Percival’s back, determined to take appropriate action, Credence had fled. 

Newt looks sadly down at Diana. She’ll live through this immoral debacle, but for the meantime it won’t be pleasant. He stands up quickly as if to shake the image from him. He quickly crosses himself, before setting down next to Dianna to pet her to ease her worried expression. 

“He has no shame. Dancing with such- And the people! The servants laughing at him.” Percival has arrived in the kitchen, shaking his head. The juniper roughed beneath his tall riding boots. 

“He’s struggling.”

“Struggling, you say. The Count-child Credence, is struggling.”

Newt sighs and stands, busying himself with a cloth edging the blue vase. Asks over his shoulder, “Is it not my turn to dance?”

“Oh, don’t give me that. Remember. He’s struggling.” Percival puts a pointed emphasis on the last word, throwing Newt’s attitude back at him. He slips behind Newt, wraps his arms around him. Kisses his cheek. 

“I know my place well enough,” Newt whispers. 

“That’s what makes you good.”

Newt turns in his arms to look hard at his face. Rubs a thumb over one thick eyebrow. Leans forward to hold him close, brush his nose against the hair at his temple, smelling strongly of pomade. After a moment, Percival steps away from him, fetching a glass and filling it at the tap. 

“You ran away from me.” Credence has slipped in unnoticed and Newt hopes his reminiscing has not conjured ill fate to repeat a similar story. Credence stands observing Percival swallow his water. Waiting for an answer. 

“Not at all, my Lord. I simply returned to fulfil my promise to dance with Newt.” 

Newt notes Percival’s nearly-slip in forgetting the respect that Credence has demanded this evening, quickly regaining his self-control. 

Once, the three of them played cards well into the early hours. Credence had recently taken over the deceased Count’s responsibility to attend the birth of new calves. Credence had childishly and abashedly requested the presence of his only friend and his father’s dearest servant. They had pityingly and dutifully followed order. They were resting, awaiting the mother’s progress. The farmhand had fallen into a light doze. In the chill of the cowshed, the late hour creaking shadows, Percival had made a bawdy joke. Credence had slapped him across the face. 

“Well. Go on then. Dance.”

“There is no music, my Lord,” Newt speaks timidly. He is uncertain what is currently ticking through Credence’s mind. He doesn’t want to upset the cart, but he will not be forced into humiliation like Percival. Not on _Midsommar_. 

Credence throws his hands up in the air before sitting down heavily at the table. Diana growls. Newt picks her up. “I’m going to take her outside. I think she’s going to be ill.” 

Ignoring him, Credence puts his head down on the table. His ear uncomfortably pressed against it, his arms swinging between his knees so his shoulders can hunch under the carved lip. Percival, tired of the charade, goes to the icebox and takes out a bottle of beer. He pours it into two mugs and sits across from Credence. “Drink. Come on, sit up.”

He doesn’t sit up. “You shouldn’t speak to me like that,” he says to the table. 

When Percival makes no response, Credence sits up and stares at him. His face cast in weak lavender light from the dusk outside.

“I don’t talk to people who look like they’re taking a nap.” 

Credence frowns and takes several noisy sips before slamming the mug down. He futilely opens the table drawer to his left, finding nothing but corkscrews and then the one to his right containing napkins. He bangs them both shut. “You speak English when you’re alone with Newt.” 

“How would you know?”

Credence blushes. Caught in the act of spying on people. “That’s none of your concern.” He lifts his chin into the air. “Where did you learn to speak English?”

“I read. I’ve been to the theatre. I worked in a hotel in London for a time.”

“Did you ever go with da-. Did you ever accompany my father?”

“No.” Percival taps the handle of his mug with his little finger. They can hear the music from the barn still. He wants to tell Credence that his father was a good man. That he was kind and fair and that these are the things that matter. He can’t tell Credence that because whatever truth they hold pales in comparison to the fact that Count Barebone was his master. He could tell Percival when to sleep, when to eat, what he could spend his money on. No matter how good Percival aspires to be, he will never be Count. No bought and foisted false-paternity from the Count to Percival and onto Credence with sweet words could atone for the grievance that Credence has committed by becoming the new Count. That is how the world works. 

Credence scrubs the heel of his hand into his eye. Even in the watercolour candlelight of the room, Percival can see that his eyelashes are wet. They’re thick and black and long for a boy. The boy is tired and maybe a little drunk now. “You should toast to his health. It is _Misommar_ and he is dead and you are alive. His living footman.”

“I am your footman.”

“Then you should toast to me.”

A little drunk also, Percival smiles and paying the game again, falls gallantly to his knee and sloshes beer onto his hand as he raises it. “A health to my master!” He stands and feels bolds enough to pat Credence on the cheek. 

The gaze Credence casts over him is bleak. Percival’s heart knocks, echoes. “You forgot to kiss my boot.”

Percival puts his mug on the table without breaking their eye contact. He hesitates. The game has shifted again. He no longer knows the rules. Credence is his master, so he bends quickly and takes Credence’s heel to lift the pointed toe to his mouth. He doesn’t move his lips, but presses them swiftly on the worn leather. The metal of one button has become jagged and minutely scratches his chin as his pulls away. He neatly turns so that he is able to put some distance between them, wipe his mouth on the back of his hand without having his back to Credence for longer than a split second.

“Wonderful. Such charm.” The pale skin of his neck, visible where his neckerchief has stretched, the knot tight but loose at the collar, has peppered pink. 

“This has to stop, Credence.”

He stands quickly. He’s shorter than Percival, but not by much. “You don’t get to call me that.”

“Since when?” Percival cries incredulous, rolling his head on his shoulders. Asking the heavens to restore order. 

Credence jabs his pointer finger into Percival’s chest. “Since I say so.”

Percival glares at him and grabs his hand, copycatting the strategy Credence set against Newt. His mouth wavers. Percival is much bigger than he is. Stronger too. Wide shoulders, now used to farm work and toned thighs earned from the running of being a footman. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing, Credence.” His frustration is warming up. He moves his hands so that they are wrapped tightly around Credence’s forearm, he tugs none too gently. 

Credence kisses him. Careens forward, his mouth catches Percival’s. It is a hard strike of lips, with his bottom teeth sniping skin. Percival quickly pushes him away. Rubs his fingertips over his mouth before shoving Credence on the shoulder, getting air between them. 

“She vomited everywhere, but I don’t think it should interfere with the process.” Newt enters the kitchen from the yard, his boots blustering chalky gravel dust over the juniper. He’s holding Dianna by her torso, his hands under her forelegs. She looks like a disgruntled baby. He puts her down and she waddles to sit by the cooker. The sun gone from the window. He puts his hands on his hips. “Is everything alright?” 

Percival holds his hands over his face. His fingers bridged in prayer over his nose. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. 

“You’re coming with me to pick lilacs,” Credence declares without pause.

“Well. Alright. If that’s what you wish to do.” Newt looks at him. There’s something peculiar about him. His cheekbones are ruddy. He runs a careful eye over him from head to toe. His boots are filthy. 

“It is.” Credence rushes at him, pushes Newt in the ribs to urge him out the door. Newt manages to get a glance at Percival, but it does nothing to answer the lingering questions. 

On the way to the garden, out in the field, they pass by Queenie and Tina. They’re sat together on the grass. Tina’s navy skirt and Queenie’s periwinkle, soft, an imitation of the clouds above them. They’re swapping _midsommarkrans_. 

Queenie says to Tina, “We’ll have to save some of the flowers. Press them into a book.”

Tina nods enthusiastically. “It has been a good _Midsommar_.” 

Queenie laughs, “It’s not over yet! Don’t you dare think of sneaking off to bed. It’s still light!”

“I know. I know.” She yawns. Spots Newt and Credence walking with linked elbows. Heads to the ground. “Where do you think they’re going?”

“The master has been in a strange mood today.” Queenie shrugs. Sometimes the Lord’s behaviour is unpredictable. It comes from his father dying, his mother’s strange way of raising him. 

“He misses his mother.”

“I don’t think he does.” Queenie has seen Credence’s eyes flash fox beady at his mother when she gives Bible study in the parlour. Him and his sisters gathered around. Members of the _New Church_ who accept the Countess’s word like another gospel. “That woman is a Delilah-“

“You shouldn’t speak about the mistress like that.”

“She is though. If the Count could see her now. Leading those poor urchins. Making them think that they can find salvation in this life by only looking at half the Bible. Making them think they can redraw the lines of society with blind faith. He’d turn in his grave. He really would.” She brushes her skirt of fallen petals. “It’s why that boy is so odd. Trying to do what his father taught him, keeping order on the estate and then being punished for it by the Countess. “

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Is it so?”

In the never-ending twilight, the haystacks have taken on a green hue. Come to life with a kiss from _Midsommar_. Credence wishes he could climb up and lay down on top. Let his body sink into the soft pile. Let it scratch and pick at his skin until he settled, fall into sleep. For days. Wake up in some other era. Wake up with red hair and rounded shoulders. 

Newt’s waving at Queenie and Tina. They wave back. Credence glowers at the side of his face. Jealous at his easy friendship. He pinches the thin skin at Newt’s elbow where he has his sleeves rolled up. Newt doesn’t yell in pain, but does bring his attention back to Credence. He doesn’t say anything. A new game has begun, Newt can feel it. 

“Why do you speak English when you’re alone with Percival?”

Newt takes a moment to assess Credence’s downturned mouth. His stooped neck, glaring at their boots swishing through the grass. Not taking in the festival evening. “Well. I suppose it’s my first language. In a way. And Mr Graves liked London and speaking English, so it’s good for him to practice.” 

Credence doesn’t respond, so Newt sways their linked elbows into his side, a gentle jab. “You should practice with me, master.”

Credence stays silent. The music from the barn drifts over to them, tumbling over the stream and babbling into the night air. It’s wearing the edges of Credence’s molars. Like incessant chatter. The twittering of the lingering birds, unsure what to do with such a long day. He feels it rattle through his teeth into his bones, flattening out his nerve ends until they ache with doubt. 

When they reach the walled garden, Credence gasps and turns to Newt seizing his arm with his free hand. “You collect the lilacs.” Credence jostles him. Skinny fingers prodding at him. “Go. I don’t want to do it. I can’t.”

Newt stumbles into the red brick, his white shirt blushing with brick dust. “Credence-“

Credence stands on his tip-toes and throws his arms around Newt’s shoulders. His hips twisting awkwardly as Credence manhandles him like a ragdoll. Pulling him tight to his chest. “Don’t call me that,” he murmurs. Absent minded, but serious. Count serious. Credence isn’t hurting him, but the intent is clear. The rules of the game are always set by the winner of the last round. 

Newt goes through the wrought iron gate and hurriedly begins snatching up the flowers. The simmering magic of the day has gone. Evening skipped. The slow night set in. Tomorrow there will be church. Proper church. The Countess won’t return home until noon and there will be time to prepare the fish. Newt longs for it already, _Midsommar_ plans, where he can escape whatever demon has taken hold of the master. He rolls his eyes and shakes the flowers. In his carelessness he has upturned a fair amount of soil. 

Credence leans against the wall, his head alls heavy against it. He calls over it, “Do you think me wicked, Newt?”

Newt vigorously shuffles the flowers. Forming a bouquet. No faltering, “No, my Lord. Why would you ask such a thing?”

For a long while the only answer is the faint shouts and songs of the people. “We should leave the lilacs. Let them grow. Let them grow tall and strong and die of their own accord. We are in no need of materialist desires that keep us from the glorification and rebirth of our souls.”

Newt comes around the wall, clasping a generous bundle of lilacs, he’s petered baby’s breath evenly amongst them. He scrambles. “There. They are not completely without God’s divinity.”

In the kitchen, Percival has set about sweeping the juniper branches away. The cleared floor sends Credence into a fit. It is not the end of _Midsommar_. He snatches the broom from Percival, tears falling, voice scratching unintelligibly. 

Newt puts a cautious hand on his shoulder. Whispers too him, “Master, please” as Percival tries to explain, that they’ll cut fresh ones tomorrow, after church, for the scent. 

As Credence lets out a long wail, Newt takes him close. Hugs him rigidly, rocks him, like a child. He drowns out the music. His voice scrapes the evening raw like a weeping wound. Percival sighs loudly and takes the wine from behind the roasting pan where Newt had hidden it from the master’s eyes. It’s the Count’s wine. Abandoned with his departure. Hated by the Countess. Remnant coveted by the child. He swigs from the bottle and surveys the pathetic scene. 

Newt has sat down and has Credence in his lap. Credence is hacking breathes in, trying to reprimand Newt for treating him like a baby while getting mucus on Newt’s collar. The lilacs have splayed across the table, baby’s breath rope-laddering to the floor. The syringa wilting in sympathy, the light outside assenting, the candles dull.

“Put him down, Newt.”

Newt startled at the order, looks reproachfully at Percival. Cups his hands around Credence’s waist and hoists him closer so that his legs are better balanced. His shoulder digs painfully into Newt’s chest, his arm tapped awkwardly between them. His other hand grasps weakly at Newt’s shirt. 

“It’s late. You should go to bed.”

“It’s _Midsommar_.” Newt more affronted at the thought of retiring before dark on the holiday than leaving their sobbing master. 

“This is over. The game stops here.” Percival puts the wine down on the table and strides to Credence’s side. He drags him from Newt, holds him firm at the elbows, makes him stand up straight. Tugs at his chin, forces him to make eye contact. “Go to bed, Newt.”

Newt folds his arms. Looks at Diana. Watches Credence try to calm his breathing. Watches Percival. Newt does not know this game. He takes up Diana, the dog grunting in her sleep, and leaves. “As you wish.” 

“Stop it. Come on now.” Placing large hands around Credence’s face. His little fingers tickling the base of his neck, the sunburnt skin there singing. 

“I. Can’t,” Credence hiccoughs. “I can’t. Breathe.”

“You’re talking. You can breathe.” Percival sucks air deeply in through his nose and heavy out through his mouth. His breath warm. “Copy me. Come on.” As Credence calms, his shaking hands settle. Air no longer rattling in his bone cave chest, Percival ushers him to the short bench at the end of the table. They sit close, with their knees turned inwards, touching. Percival keeps his hand on the centre of Credence’s shoulders. 

Whispers softly to the Lord of the manor, “I’ve done lots of jobs in my life. Lots.” He rubs Credence’s back. “One of the best was when I was nineteen.” Credence still has his coat on. He’s a _lövsångare_. “I was meant to go to the North to work as a Hall Boy.” 

He takes his hand away from Credence and reaches for the bottle of wine. Takes a sip and tilts it towards the boy. “But I drank too much. Woke up in a field. No idea.” He laughs mirthlessly. Credence takes the bottle and drinks. 

“I had to start again. I was lucky though. A bohemian type wanted somebody to help him wash his brushes, wash his floors. Stretch his canvases. Maybe pose for him.” Percival shrugs. “I didn’t have to do much. It was good.” He takes the bottle from Credence. “In his artist studio, there was a _Dalahäst_ on the windowsill. It was different. I don’t know where he got it from, but it wasn’t carved. It was porcelain. Some friend, or someone must have made it because if you turned it over you could see the unvarnished clay on its tummy.” He sits back so that his elbows are resting on the table. “It was shit. But I wanted it. It seemed so special. A _Dalahäst_. A mockery of one, really. Somebody’s idea of an arty game. But special. Unique.” He clicks his fingers. He says it in English, “Unique.”

He turns his head to look at Credence, still regarding him carefully. “I wanted it.”

Percival looks at Credence through half-mast eyes. They are red, tired. Credence looks at his mouth. He pulls the sleeve of his long white shirt out from his blazer and wipes it softly over Percival’s brow. “Mr Graves.” Credence says in English, “You should kiss my hand.” The pale of Credence claw hand with their deep gashes trembles before him.

He looks away. “Stop it. You’re not a child Credence.” He leans his forearms on his knees. Feet creating stability. “I’m just a man Credence. I can’t-“

Credence laughs, high and quick. Turns so that he straddling the bench. He ungainly reaches over and takes the wine from Percival. “You think yourself a Joseph. Tempted? Tricked by me?” He takes a drink.

“Not a Joseph, Credence. Not with my head on the platter of a young girl.” He stands. “But you, you and your tattered suit.” He roughs his hand through slicked back hair that is fanning out, soft. “Still a better man than I.” 

He jabs a finger in Credence’s direction. “A Count, Credence. A Count in nothing but name. You have no money, you ask your dead father’s footman to work the land. You allow your mother to turn the estate into a camping ground for that fake religion she’s picked up and dragged your sisters into. And where is she now, hmm?” Percival steps forward and holds Credence’s jaw in his rough hands. Thumbs digging painfully into each tragus. Smoothes the hollow of his cheekbones with pad of his thumbs. “Given you a beating” Credence shudders. “And left you here because you are no pure child, Credence.”

Credence sways forward. Arches into Percival. Closes his eyes. “ There will no redemption for you.” Credence keens in the back of his throat. Percival’s hands fall so they grip tight at the back of his neck. “No reborn humanity in you.” He pushes one hand to the centre of his chest. “You are icy lightning inside here.” 

The sky has closed in navy and they are startled by the sound of drunken servants and villagers’ boots on the gravel of the yard. “Quick. We must leave here.”

“Leave?” Credence’s face has gone pallid with the lateness of the hour and his voice inky confused. Control wrested from him once again.

“The people are troublesome. Especially on this night. Come. Let me get you somewhere safe.”

Credence frowns at him without moving away. “I am safe. These are my people. They mock me, but they love me.” He smirks at Percival. “You think yourself all-knowing. But I know, that you-” He smirks. “-you, the poor, appreciate a sad master to serve. A witless master.” He rises, pulls Percival’s hands away from his face by his wrists, stumbles back on his heels before surging forward and kissing him briefly. Titling his head sideways, eyelids heavy. “A master who will always be better than you no matter how foolish and pitiful.”

In anger, Percival seizes him under his arms. The work of his class giving him the physical upper hand. Grips tight and drags him across the kitchen floor. “The people hate you. They hate you, you imbecile.” Credence’s heels clatter on the tile. His fingernails claw at Percival’s forearm and he spits, catching Percival’s neck. 

Fighting all the way, Percival manages to get Credence inside his room and deposits him gracelessly onto a thin wooden chair. He bolts the door. Sweating, he breathes hard and pushes his hair back with one hand. “You’re a menace.” He storms to the bed and back to the door. “You exist as a spirit. You are mist.” He flutters his hand about the air. He stands before Credence and throws his hands down. “Are you completely oblivious to the life around you?”

In English, Credence intones solemnly, “The hand of the Lord was on me, and he brought me out by the Spirit of the Lord and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones.” Eyes never leaving the wooden floor. 

“You are unforgivable.”

The drunken signing of the people grows loud, like they might be dancing in the halls and fades just as quick, remembering their place. Credence sneers at Percival. He takes his master by his neck and forces their mouths together. Credence yields to it. Pants desperately as Percival pulls away and sucks bruising kisses into Credence’s neck, his collarbones, the wiry muscle above his nipple, exposed where he has roughly jerked at his shirt. 

Credence’s hands scrabble at the buttons of Percival’s waistcoat, while he unknots his neckerchief. Under Percival shirt he still wears his union suit. He’s never truly warm. He pulls his arms from it, letting the top half hang over his belt.

Naked from the waist up, Percival hauls Credence close to him. Kisses him deep. Tongues sliding artlessly. Credence’s mouth is sour. He hasn’t eaten in days. His fingers dig into the meat of Percival’s shoulders. Clinging on as he pushes him down onto the bed. 

Percival strips him off his shirt, his trousers. Credence, suddenly shy closes his limbs towards himself. Pushes his palms against Percival to give him leverage to sit up against the iron frame of the bed. Percival holds his wrist, kisses his knee. 

Out the window Credence can see the horses. They have wandered into the field. They will be cold. In the excitement of the day and the absence of the night, the farmhand has neglected them. In the unsure darkness of the briefest witching hour, they meander. Unable to sleep. Eerie _Dalahäst_ with dark manes and clumsy hooves.

Credence flattens his knee to the bed, allows Percival the crawl towards him. Percival wraps his hands around Credence’s neck. They stare silently at one another. There is no starlight, and the moon, nearly full is watery. Percival runs his hands over Credence’s shoulders, over his back the pillows soft under his hands. The scars on Credence’s back are thick with healed, skeptical skin. He doesn’t wince. Percival grips him by the hips and brings him forward. His hands continue their path, holding the backs of Credence’s thighs so that he can wrap his legs around his waist. 

He sits back on his heels. Takes his time undoing the buttons of his trousers. The row on his left hip and then the right. Credence watches with curious eyes. Stretches his middle finger so that the tip trails the hair from Percival’s sternum down to his groin. Watches as Percival pulls his hard cock from under his union suit. Jerks it, unthinking, twice. Credence nods. 

Credence is wearing the drawers of a female. They are thin plain cotton and tear easily when Percival moves them aside. They did not take Percival by surprise. The Countess has never made much effort to differentiate her children. Credence’s suit is old and tattered because she will not provide for him. The underwear is a necessity for warmth and cleanliness, not preference. 

He pushes into Credence, acting on instinct. Newt has only ever done this to him, not the other way around. Credence’s eyes squeeze shut and sniffs, but does not try to dislodge Percival. Lets him grind his hips into his and begin to thrust. Slow drags that last as long as the day and set his skin to goose bumps. 

Some time, Percival hits somewhere inside him and it feels good. He puts a hand on his stomach trying to understand it. They breathe together. Speeding up, Percival takes Credence’s forgotten length, pumping him to hardness and Credence’s bony hand tightens on his ribs. Comes over himself, staining his underwear. Percival lays his head on his small chest and bites at his neck, grunts into his ear and finishes. He pats Credence’s cheek. 

The kitchen is flooded with early dawn light. “They certainly made themselves comfortable.” Credence surveys the room. The juniper has once again been pushed across the floor. The flowers on the table scattered across the room. Someone has taken oats and sprinkled them over the kitchen surfaces. There is a beer bottle turned upside down, sticking out from the mouth of the blue vase. 

“There’s your proof then. We won’t be able to stay here much longer.” Percival follows Credence into the room and takes a dustpan and brush from a cupboard. 

“We’re leaving?”

“We must.”

“Why?” Credence had not got dressed properly after. His shirt is not buttoned correctly. Making him look more angular than usual. He did not put his boots back on.

Percival begins sweeping the oats from the table. His technique is highly inefficient. “Credence. You grew up here. People will talk.”

“Who will talk?”

Percival stops what he his doing and goes over the Credence. Attempts to comb his curls with his fingers. Holds him by the chin to make sure he stays looking at him. “My Lord, your servants came in here looking for you. You were in the room of your father’s footman. They will gossip.”

Credence’s eyes prickle with tears. “You’re a liar. You protected me.”

Percival laughs a low rumble in his chest. “You are my master. You do not need protecting.”

He gets a hit for that. Hard in the gut. “You son of Jacob. Lying to get what you want.”

Sitting down heavily Percival sighs, “I’ve never lied, Credence.” He wrings his hands together. “We really should go. Let me take you to London. We could start a hotel.” His eyebrows arched openly imploring. This is the game. But part of him means it. 

“You’d be the host. Not a Count. A Host. Everyone would want to come see you.” He gestures with his hand for Credence to come closer. He takes Credence’s hand. Links their fingers. “You wouldn’t have budgets to tend and orders to hand out.” He strokes a hand over Credence’s dusty trousers. Credence sits in his lap. “You’d be able to talk to people. Charm them.” Percival smiles indulgently at him. Rubs his nose into his collarbone. “Let me teach you. I’d buy you pretty things. Hard, pretty things. Books and visits to art galleries” he kisses the bone “magenta overcoats.”

Credence speaks softly, “A thirst that is never quenched.”

This comment makes Percival groan. “You’ll never be happy if you keep thinking like your mother.”

“She’s not my mother.”

That does surprise Percival. His head snaps up nearly knocking into Credence’s jaw. “What?”

“She’s not my mother. It’s why I must atone to the Lord.” He sags against Percival. “I am not good.”

For a long time Percival does not know what to say. The birds outside have started their morning chorus. There is the loud creak of the cattle barn door’s hinges. He squeezes Credence around his middle. “Let us go then. We’ll go to London.”

Abruptly, Credence stands. “You mustn’t do this.” He paces the kitchen. “Making me think you love me. That it’s me and not Newt.” He rushes across the room and slaps Percival, his hand tired misses his cheek and hits his ear and neck awkwardly. He gasps. Suddenly, falls to his knees. Peppers Percival’s shin with kisses. Roughly pulls his trouser leg up and hooks careless fingers under his the elastic keeping his sock up. Kisses his legs, kisses over the ankle boots he had pulled on hurriedly instead of his long riding boots. “I hate you. I hate you.”

Percival pulls Credence up by the hair. “Stop it.” 

Credence cries at the pain in his scalp. “You must wait patiently for the Lord to act.”

“He is acting. This is the act. This is the game, Credence. Stop telling me your mother’s rules. She’s not playing.”

“She’s not my mother,” yells Credence. 

“I know,” says Newt from the doorway. He’s come from his room and they had missed the sound of his footsteps on the title. “I know because she left you here on _Midsommar_ in the year you gained your majority. She no longer has rights over the estate. She might not even come back.”

Percival lets go of Credence. Setting him back on the flat of his feet. 

“It is time for church.” Newt has Percival’s church coat over his arms. “Are you coming with me, Percival?”

He coughs. “Yes. Yes of course.” He takes his coat from Newt and tugs it on. He pulls the chair from the table and sits down in front of Newt. “Help me with my neckerchief.” 

With his eyes on Credence, Newt leans down over Percival’s and ties his ‘chief, neatening it where it hangs loose. Tidying him up, where he had failed to do so. Where he had fallen away and not managed the get back up yet. Done, Newt places his hands on the thick Percival’s blank epaulettes. Percival keeps his head down, eyes on his hands resting on his thighs. 

Newt goes over to the china bureau and takes a bible from one of the drawers. He speaks to Credence, “You should correct your buttons.”

Credence looks down at himself, before looking up at Newt and resolutely not taking his advice. In a calmness that does not meet the tension in the room, Newt tears the remaining syringas from the Japanese jar. The sun has brought out his freckles. They glow against the redden anger blooming on his face. “You are wicked, Credence.”

Newt is silently crying and Credence whispers in English, “Help me.” Newt walks towards him and puts the Bible on the table. He hugs Credence fiercely. “Help me be good. I can’t do it alone. There are people who can, Newt. People like you, but I can’t.” He sobs into Newt’s Sunday neckerchief. “It’s like there’s something inside me.” He lifts his head and hooks his chin over Newt’s shoulder; his eyes meet Percival’s. “Like an icy lightning inside me.”

Newt cradles him and together they manoeuvre onto the floor in front of the cold cooker, slumped together amongst a tangle of juniper branches, stray scorpion grasses. “Do you ever think like that, Newt?”

Newt pretends not to hear him. To answer back would not be his place.


End file.
